Regrets

I always regretted not going on the camping trip.  But I was nervous about sleeping outside and nervous about wild animals.  My mother – being the hypochondriac she was – had brought me up to be scared of normal events.  Not that getting eaten by a bear was something that happened every day, but at the time, it was a real fear for me. 

When my friends came home, they told me the haunting story of their trip and the consequences would curse them for years to come.  Because I had been too scared of being eaten, I was slowly but surely pushed out of the group.  I didn’t share in their lingering trauma so I wasn’t included in their talks.  In their outings.  In their weekly meetups.  At first, I was bitter about missing out on the memories they made, but now I was noticing changes and omissions in the accounts of that trip.  At least the few accounts I still heard. 

But my guilt and rumors over missing the trip quickly quieted when I realized what my “absence” had done to the group.  If I could redo the entire event, I would keep everything exactly as it was.  Otherwise, my “friends” would never face the real cost of leaving me behind.  This way, at least I still had my mind and my sanity intact.  Nothing could be said for those who had gone on the trip.  Because none of them could utter a single word to this day.